


Friends in Need

by Heilith



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24213403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heilith/pseuds/Heilith
Summary: Imagine helping Eomer out of his armor after the Battle of Pellenor Fields.
Relationships: Eomer/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Friends in Need

“Eomer.”

There was no response. You hadn’t thought there would be any.

It’s been hours since he had settled here, fresh out of the battle none of the locals had hoped to live through.

Eowyn was past danger, and, hopefully, on the mend. Elaborate potions plunged her into a deep sleep. As much as you ached for her, Eomer came across as the one to be running a worse risk at the moment.

The attendants hushed him away from his sibling’s bedside soon after the visit of Aragorn, but he stayed by the door to her chamber stubbornly, grim and moody in his determination to remain there for as long as it took.

You made sure to pass through these corridors each quarter of an hour, not because you were someone the healers couldn’t do without, but because that way you could keep an eye on him. You couldn’t afford anything else.

Nothing more than a friend, you had no say in the matters of his well-being. His arrival to Gondor was a blessing, had been always been such – for you, if for no one else. There was no shame in being worried for him, but, in the end, the concern was not of yours. 

You told that to yourself about a hundred times. Ordered your tongue to be still even as he slouched against the wall, his arms folded over the stained breastpiece. 

Each time it was alarming to find yet another emotion missing from his eyes. 

Fear was the first to wane, then grief was erased off his face like it had never been there. The vague flickers of anger were more persistent, but even they died off soon, leaving him in a state of dull apathy.

It was beyond you to bear it any longer.

“Eomer!”

He gave you a vacant look, then nodded, acknowledging your presence.

“Сome,” you pulled him by the arm gently, “You have to rest.” 

“I’m not leaving her.”

“She’s taken care of.”

Eomer wouldn’t budge, the misbalance of strengths making you attempts to take him away ridiculous. People were beginning to stare, and it felt more awkward than if you’d be kissing him shamelessly under the public scrutiny. 

You wouldn’t care if you were.

“It won’t help her, if you pass out here,” you insisted, “You are the King now. Your people need to see you fit.”

The mention of his new, if not yet official, duties did Eomer good.

Much to your relief, he took a steady breath, the exhale coming out with a sound you preferred to interpret as “yes”, and followed you out into the hall.

The initial idea of bringing him upstairs to one of the lords’ chambers didn’t strike you as good any longer. There were just too many steps to conquer. You couldn’t expect Eomer to make it there all smoothly, taking into account the way he’d spent the past twenty-four hours. There were no doubts you’d hear no moans from him. And yet you were as certain that it would be the case when the lack of complains didn’t equal the lack of grievances.

So you took the right turn instead, leading the way into an empty healing ward. It would seem that the place would not have a free inch to put a stretcher on, but, whoever had designed the fortress, had had a morbid outlook on the future of its inhabitants. The Houses of Healing appeared vast enough to accommodate a city worth of the sick and the injured.

Would the architect be proud of their foresight or saddened to know that their misgivings were justified?

You left Eomer by the narrow bed. The morning had already crept over Minas Tirith, casting bleak and cold sunrays across walls and towers and peeking into the open windows with an unfriendly eye.

The lighting didn’t flatter Eomer’s already wretched looks at all. He hadn’t had a chance to tend to his own needs yet, and, from the look of it, was not going to do so without a reminder. 

“Take it off,” you swept a hand across his chest in an attempt to make him concentrate, “I’ll bring you wine.”

Out in the front yard the remaining cooks were hastily cramming herbs and spices into simmering cauldrons, filled to the brim with a wicked hotchpotch of wines from the late Stewards’s cellar. The spots gathered more people than those where bowls of lean chicken broth were handed out.

Perhaps, you could fetch him both. And a hunch of bread, if there was still some.

Eomer kept standing by the bed, like a ghost of himself, bound to whichever place he was summoned to.

A single glance at him made it clear that neither wine nor food were going to be of any help.

Your heart swelled with pity.

“Eomer,” you called out for him again.

“Yes, I’m fine,” his voice was firm and even enough to deceive someone who hadn’t spent a hundred of small eternities, letting his every little word and gesture engrave itself in her brain. 

Eomer reached for the shoulder pieces sluggishly.

If he went on in the same strain, it would take him hours to get rid of the rest.

“Here, let me do this.”

“You don’t have to.” 

He must have expected you to ignore the remark, because your further help met no hindrance or objection.

The job was a new experience, and not the easiest one in your life. 

You carefully removed the breast-and-back, trying not to fumble with the straps too much.

He was too tall to make it all comfortable for you.

“Sit,” you asked him softly. 

The dim chainmail was unbearably heavy, once you pulled it off him, nearly dropping the thing in the attempt. Eomer let out a soft humourless laugh, his brotherly amusement only deepening, because you tarried, not sure if you should touch the tunic, too.

You couldn’t look past the intimacy of it as successfully as you had thought you would.

He saved you from the straights, shouldering out of the garment on his own, and was sitting half-naked before your eyes.

There had been times when you had daydreamed of the moment you would see him do that in your presence.

Oh, how you would blush, secretly proud have him all at your disposal - and hold your breath at the perfect image of manliness that sculptured torso made…How your body would flutter when those steely arms trapped you against him…and you would laugh, begging for air, giving up to his longings eventually… 

Now you hardly thought of it. What you saw was that he was bruised, and sweaty, and bleeding out of the endless scattering of chafes and scratches. The darkish gold of his hair showed greased. Unattractive. He was stooping down more now, than when that armour had been weighing on his shoulders.

There were no grave wounds, but you’d heard tales of perfectly sturdy men, perishing from a single infected pinprick. A tad of precaution never hurt anyone.

“I’ll need water for that,” you mused out loud, “You wait.”

“Stop,” Eomer had caught at your hand abruptly, before you made a step away from him, “Come here,” asked he in a thick voice.

There was nothing sensual in the embrace that followed.

You let him pull you into his laps in a slow, laggard motion, and clasp you to him loosely. His hot forehead rested on your shoulder like it would rest against his own hands, if he had been alone with himself. 

He was no longer a maiden’s dream material, nor a treat to anyone’s eye. 

Just a dead tired man, a fearless and strong horse rider, who ran out of all his courage and might, and was yearning for a drop of comfort.

And yet he had never been so dear to you.

You looped your arms around his head, running your fingers through his hair slowly, again and again, whispering something you had no will to think of. You wouldn’t notice it, if you confessed your love for him in oblivion, and Eomer would most likely be deaf to it, either…

Eventually, his grasp on you weakened. He straightened up, and you seized on the opportunity to slip out of his arms, afraid of what else you could do or say, if he held you close for a little bit longer.

“I’ll have that wine, thank you,” said he, not looking up at you.

You murmured your assent incoherently. The excuse to leave the chamber was as good as any other. You were grateful that he had offered it to you.

Eomer still avoided meeting your glance. 

He looked much more alert now. Since the moment on you could probably go on minding your own business.

“Thank you,” repeated he suddenly, when the door was already closing on you.

And this time you were sure it wasn’t the wine he was talking about.


End file.
